I love this picture of Henry. For a lot of reasons, but most obviously, the expression on his little four-year old face. He seems to be deep in thought, processing something floating around in his complex mind. It reminds me of what my face looks like most of the time. When I was in high school, apparently I gave off the impression (with my facial expressions) that I was snobby, unapproachable, a nasty b, for lack of a better term. But really? I was always thinking about things, and they were never light and airy, always heavy and laden with emotion. My heart was perpetually broken back then, and that was the face that others were seeing. I guess I fooled them, huh? They thought I was a nasty witch, but in reality I was a tortured, saddened soul! Jokes on you, suckas!
Anyway, I never really share anything that’s too personal on here. And I don’t plan on delving into my personal life. But there’s a story that needs to be told so that you, my readers, can have a bit of background into this writer’s soul. So that no one can ever mistake me for a wretched wench again, so that you can understand how I went from broken and battered to light and airy again.
I remember living in our teeny, tiny house and always being amazed at how flimsy the doors were. They were those awful hollow core doors that felt like heavy cardboard. Sound traveled through them like there was nothing there. It was as if there were large pieces of notebook paper hung from the door frames, wafting in the breeze, allowing everything in and nothing out. They crumbled easily when hit too hard, or maybe they weren’t made to withstand that kind of abuse. Like the walls. But either way, they weren’t REAL doors. They were some kind of poor excuse for a door, doors like the ones I’d seen while visiting my family in New York. Doors that were large and formidable, oak, as tall as trees, welcoming you into the safety of home. My doors never felt like that. Substitutes for the real thing, poor quality but there nonetheless. They did their job, and that was it. You weren’t getting anything extra from them. Like real protection, or even refuge from the storm.
My mom was our refuge.
The house itself was home because my mom was there. Always. Every vacation we took, it was me, my mom, and my brother. My father worked a lot- three jobs sometimes, in fact -so he never went with us. But he didn’t want to go anyway, so it was the perfect out. My mom was our home. We car danced, we played “coma”, she always made us laugh. She would pretend she was a robot and say, “I am not your mother. I am a robot from Zeldor,” in this creepy, robot-like voice. And we would die laughing; until my brother would seriously start to get freaked out. His little face would go from hysterically laughing, to cautiously grinning, to straight freaked OUT. He’d say, “Okay mom, that’s enough,” and she’d keep going, just until she knew once she stopped, he’d be hysterically laughing once again. She never went too far, but only far enough to ensure the joke was still funny and enjoyable.
My mom was always there to make us laugh,
make us happy,
love us,
be our hero.
My father wasn’t.
But he always worked hard for his family. My father’s work ethic was strong and he provided for us. Three jobs sometimes, and he worked so that my mother didn’t have to. He worked so she could be a stay-at-home mom until we went to kindergarten. My father never let us go without the necessities of life. I have to give credit where it is obviously due. But, I don’t ever remember feeling like I knew my dad. I still don’t. I live less than two miles away from him, and he hasn’t seen Henry in…I don’t even know…maybe almost two years? Henry saw a very rare photo of himself with my father, and he asked me who he was.
He had no clue.
I’ve tried to call, tried to reach out, put aside my anger, confronted him WITH my anger, I’ve done it all. Nothing. Crickets. I basically begged my father to love me back, without actually coming out and saying, “please love me, dad. I need you in my life. You’ve broken my heart from the time I was a child, from the time I was little and could hear you yelling at mom and saying you hated being at our house.” He would pay me lip service, tell me he would call this day or that day. Tell me he’d been extremely busy with work and that’s why he hadn’t called. And let me say this: there WERE times that he did call me, and it was usually because he had a question or needed something from me, like my brother’s phone number. There were times where he would vaguely hint at the fact that things weren’t right between us and he wanted to work them out, get together and talk. And I always said yes, of course, let’s do it. What day would work for you? That’s when I’d get the whole, “well, let me give you a call because I’m not sure blah, blah, blah”. And then he’d disappear again. For weeks, months. And now, years….
About two years ago now, I finally forgave my father. I finally REALLY forgave him. I’d been saying that forgiveness had been given, that I was no longer angry at him. But it wasn’t true, I was forcing it. Pushing it into existence and leaving it in a soul hole where it would rot and fester and then explode, eventually covering my heart and insides with fear and regret and anger, all over again. And the vicious cycle perpetuated itself once again.
I finally laid it at the foot of His Cross. All of it. I knew I couldn’t do it anymore.
But more than that, my son didn’t deserve to have this kind of grandpa, this person who would drift in and out of his life, destroy his little heart like mine had been. And papa couldn’t stand to see me hurt by him anymore, he had never really been a fan to begin with. He knew that my father was not even remotely trying to have a real relationship with me, but he didn’t want to push it. It was my life, my father, and he was always there to pick up the pieces. My amazing husband never once told me to let it go, write him off, etc. He was just…there…for all of it…for any of it. i adore him for that.
Because of what’s happened in my life with my earth father, my biological father, I have trust issues with my Heavenly Father. I find it incredibly hard to believe that He truly died FOR ME, and if I was the only person on earth, He would’ve died on the Cross JUST FOR ME. Because dads have never impressed me much, I guess. Besides my pop and my stepdad, and now my husband, so it was hard for me. I was always chasing love from my father, always trailing him like a sick puppy dog. Loving our Lord, loving Christ and devoting my life to Him, it made me uneasy. I didn’t want to be a sick puppy dog chasing his owner anymore. So it’s incredibly hard for me to give it all to Him, trust Him, believe I am His.
It still is….
But I have to believe it’s true. Because I know it is for Henry….
And soon, Ezra Atticus, too.
